


Day One: Cultural Differences

by Demia



Series: JadeRose Week [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Crossover, F/F, JadeRose Week, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demia/pseuds/Demia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jade Harley, Dragonborn, falls in love with a truly scary, truly haughty Khajiit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day One: Cultural Differences

**Author's Note:**

> Terribly late fill for Jaderose week day one.

## 

Day One: Crossovers

  


### Cultural Differences

“Excuse me, my lady,” a woman says, offering something to you. You don't even stop for a second to look at it. It is so common, lately, for you to be approached and bothered by any kind of people.  
You are not starting to get used to it, no matter what Tullius promised you.  
“My lady,” the woman repeats, and now there's a very dangerous hiss in her voice. 

You turn, just a little, to stare her down.  
She must know who you are or she would not have come close to you.  
She is terribly short, and dressed in a leather armor that has seen better days.  
“What do you want?” you ask her, just because her voice sounds like a vampire's and you don't want to risk getting bitten for ignoring her. 

“This is a gift from my people to you. It is terribly ill-mannered of you to ignore such a gesture of respect and gratefulness. You might be the Dovahkiin but it doesn't excuse you from being impolite,” she spits out, pushing the gift against your armored chest.  
She pushes it so hard that you feel the blow even through the dragon-bone plates covering your body.

“My apologies,” you whisper, staring harder at the woman.  
She talks of her people, but she doesn't look much different from a common Breton, except for the fact that she is maybe shorter than the norm. “I thought you were–”

“Trying to be a bother, yes, I understood that from your attitude. Which, let me tell you, my lady, is completely inappropriate.” 

“I am sorry,” you repeat, frowning hard enough that your muscles grunt in discomfort. Ah, you're used to it. You're used to your skin itching and complaining and bothering you.  
You're also used to the glare the short woman is giving you. 

You're still trying to figure out what is her heritage, because she looks human through and through, in your eyes. 

She has amethysts for irises, sparkly and smart, she's a quick witted lass, this one, you can read it in every inch of her plump body.  
Her hair is cropped short, braided, blonde as the sun and the wheat. 

Oh, she's cute alright, and she has an Amulet of Mara hanging from her neck, maybe for religious purposes or maybe because she's looking for a spouse. Who knows?  
You could ask her, obviously, but you don't want to insult her any more than you already have.  
She might be a vampire, still, or a necromancer, or a very powerful Mage. 

You don't want to risk your life, not so soon after defeating the Stormcloaks, not so soon after a pretty big victory. 

“So, where are you from?” you ask her. In part it is to erase the look of contempt plastered on her face, in part it's because you can't guess at her race and this seems the least invasive way of asking her. 

“Elsweyr.” Her voice is cold as ice, and displeased. 

No one has ever said you're a good conversationalist.  
You were made for fighting, not for talking, after all. 

Elsweyr, you think. 

Elsweyr is not a land you've seen with your own two eyes, but your grandfather has been there. He has also stayed there for a while. Some says – and _some_ stands for your dear, dear mother – he had a lover there. A Khajiiti lover. 

You don't know if you believe even half the stories you hear about your grandfather. 

Some calls him the best Morag Tong Assassin to ever exist, and some says he was a drunkard that liked to ramble and chug down ale like fresh water.  
Some even go as far as to say he sold skooma to young soldiers tired of the war. 

“Are you an adopted Khajiiti or something of the kind?” you ask, treading very lightly and very carefully. Her slanted eyes narrow and she shows you an impressive mouthful of sharp fangs. 

“I am an Ohmes Khajiit. Not adopted. Born _Khajiit_ , through and through. _Jer va renrij_." She spits at your feet. 

_Disgusting_. 

But, you suppose you have offended her deeply with your assumptions so you bow your head and leave her to her own affairs. 

The gift she has given you is safely put in your satchel. You don't bother to look at it, for the moment. 

*

You don't sleep peacefully, that night. You think of the Khajiiti woman.  
Or, _Khajiit_ , you guess, if the way she has stressed the lack of the last vowel was anything you had to notice. 

You're pretty sure she has offended you in her weird tongue. 

A new language you've never heard before, how marvelous. 

Your late grandfather would have loved it, of course, but you're not your late grandfather, and you're starting to get tired of all these new things that you don't know and will never have the time to learn. 

You have no doubts that your life will be short. You’re lucky you’ve gotten this old, already, and you keep putting yourself in dangerous situations. You'll be even luckier if you reach your thirtieth summer. 

You walk aimlessly, the house is too big and your steps too loud and not loud enough to drown your thoughts out. 

With a heavy sigh, you wander outside. The air is cold enough to kill a bear and you don a dirty fur on your shoulders, closing it tightly against your throat. 

Windhelm is not the most merciful of places, not by far, but it's home for you. Hjerim is home to you, in particular.  
Bloody and cold and witness of murders.  
You feel comfortable in here. 

“My thane,” Calder calls you, and you don't flinch, you don't jump out of your skin.  
You would hear his steps coming from a mile away, the man has no idea what it means to be stealthy and subtle, bless his nordic heart. “Is something troubling you?”

“Not at all,” you reassure him, but it is late in the night, the moons are shining in the sky, reflecting the lights of the Worldskin Himself, and you stare at them longingly, you stare at the stars. You wonder, are your parents up there? Is your grandfather up there? 

Their spirits must be, you rationalize. They must be, because the Ash'abah fight to keep them beyond the grave, where they belong. The Ash'abah let the dead rest. You bring a great respect for them in your heart, no matter how your people think of them. 

“You don't look so good, thane,” Calder says, placing a warm hand on your shoulder.  
You turn your head, you stare at him. Not for too long. 

You know his mind and you know your beauty.  
You've been blessed by Dibella's divine hand when you were barely a toddler, and as such you don't lack admirers. Calder is simply the last on a very long list. A list you don't like to think about, or to even mention. 

“I am in perfectly good health, thank you for your concern.”

“Thane–”

“Calder. Go back inside. It's very cold out here,” you tell him, strict but gently. He doesn't need your poison, not tonight, and you're tired enough as it is, you don't want to have to deal with the guilt of hurting him.  
Your voice is already cause for too much pain.  
Such is the fate of a Dovahkiin.

*

Morning comes, you bid goodbye to Masser and Secunda. You wonder if you will see them again or if today is finally the day Death will catch you.  
Whatever is your destiny, you're ready to face it, if a little bit sleep-deprived.  
The fatigue is making your limbs heavy as lead, and you could take today off your work to just rest. 

You guess you do deserve it, sometimes. Even heroes needs to lay down at night.

“Are you going into town today too, thane?” Calder asks you. He is kind enough to have a meal ready for you on the table, and you gulf it down. 

Spending the night awake has made you hungry, more than usual.  
He stares at you, disgusted probably by your terrible manners, and you grin at him, your lips dripping with liquefied fat from the sausages he has cooked for you. 

You have a better taste for raw meat, lately, but he doesn't need to know this.  
No one needs to know this, really, but for the Companions, and they already know perfectly well. 

“I might as well. There is nothing to do around the house,” you answer him, as you finally swallow your food.  
Your stomach thanks you and you pat it, mostly out of a deep sense of confusion. Your mind always feels slower when you don't sleep at night, whether it is from insomnia or from your other peculiar condition it doesn't matter much.

“Could you stop by the market? We need green vegetables. And potatoes.” Calder gestures to the pantry and you nod at him, shrugging your shoulders. 

It's a matter of a few minutes to don your armor and your furs and leave for the market, and you don't care about your housecarl enough to warn him that you're leaving and that you don't know when you will come back. 

There is always the possibility that something happens somewhere and that your presence will be required.  
Such is the life of the Dragonborn. 

*

The woman – the Khajiit – is here too.  
You see her moving around a display of apples, shoulders tense and back straight, inconspicuous. 

You pride yourself of not having prejudices against other races. Damnation, your own race is subject to others' discrimination and hatred, but Khajiit are not said to be thieves for no reason at all. 

They are quick, and silent, and cunning like no one else. 

You approach her, as silent and as stealthy as you can while wearing dragon bones on your person.  
Which is to say, not much.  
Her ears – completely human-like, no matter what her heritage is – must be as sensitive as the cat-like ones of her more recognizable siblings. 

“Dovahkiin,” she says, as if in greeting, but her voice is sharp and her teeth are bared.  
Ferocious, you think, like a beast.  
She might look human, but she is not, and you better remember it. 

This is what her body is telling you, and her tone. 

“Khajiit,” you answer, because you don't have a name or a handy title to call her. 

“If you must, call me _Ri_ ,” she spits out, turning her hypnotizing eyes on you.

“That means?” you ask.

“Leader. As I am the Clan Mother of this breed.” She looks proud. You have no idea what kind of accomplishment she is outing, here, and the only thing you're left to do is hum noncommittally, taking an apple in your hand and testing its flesh. 

Feels nice. The kind of apples that you would like if you ever bothered eating fruit. 

“You have no idea what I'm saying, do you?” she asks, and you're not sure if there is malice in her voice or if she's only tired of the prospect of having to explain how her people work. 

You know you are. Every time someone approaches you with inquiries about the color of your skin, you know you're in for a long conversation.

“No, but you don't have to teach me. I will gladly take any recommendations for books to read on the subject, though. If you are so kind as to give them to me,” you tell her, passing the apple in her small – so small and dainty and fragile-looking – hands. They are pale and fur-less. Not at all like a Khajiit's. “What do you think about this apple? Would a Nord like it?” 

“Why do you ask me about the preferences of the Nords? I don't know, nor do I care about them and their tastes in food. They're probably bland.”

“Ah, definitely not bland. My housecarl can make the spiciest sausage rolls that can be found, and I've been in quite a few places in my life, I will have you know,” you say, trying for a lighter kind of conversation. You also throw a wink in there. For good measure.  
And who knows, maybe the Amulet Ri wears on her neck is actually a sign that she's looking for a spouse. 

And maybe you might have a chance. 

“You may want to try my daughter's cooking, before making any statement, Dovahkiin.”

*

Ri lives in traveling caravans.  
You've yet to see one Khajiit living in a house, though, so you guess it's just their culture. They must be nomadic or something of the kind.  
No skin off your back. You used to be nomadic too, before coming to Skyrim. 

A child, must not be over ten summers, runs around you in circles.  
She looks human enough, with blonde hair like her mother – you suppose this is the daughter Ri has talked to you about – and big, gleaming pink eyes. 

“You're the Dovahkiin!” she yells at you, a little bundle of joy and excitement.  
You definitely don't think about all the orphans you've made, killing Stormcloaks left and right.  
Definitely not. 

You surely don't think about the victims of your claws and your jaws and your muzzle. Nor do you think of their hypothetical children. 

These are all thoughts that don't cross your mind, and you scratch the back of the child's head, offering her your warmest smile. 

You suppose it could be warmer. It has been warmer, back when you were still a child yourself, living in Hammerfell, uncaring of the political wars and the Dragons and what-not.  
“I am. My name is Jade Harley,” you tell her, offering your other hand – the one not buried in her fluffy curls – for her to shake. 

She puts all her strength into it, which is not much. Not enough to shake your muscles, but you fake for her sake. 

Ri, silent on the side of the clearing, standing next to a tent with a slight air of impatience around her, nods at you. It's curt, and somewhat noble, you think, and you smile at her. 

“I'm Rosh'ahnna La'aalonde, but you can call me Roxy, because mom says that humans don't really know how to pronounce our names, so we have to adapt.” The child is beaming, she is so terribly cute. You feel kind of… envious. 

You may be starting to want a child of your own. Or maybe two.  
There are so many little orphans wandering the streets, what evil could it do, to get them out of the cold and to offer them a roof and hot food and a warm, clean bed?

“Rosh'ahnna,” you try to say, knowing perfectly well that you just butchered her name in three-hundred different ways. She just smiles wider and nods. An understanding child, then, much more lenient than her mother. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“For me too! _Fado_ has spoken a lot about you. A _lot_ ,” the child, Rosh'ahnna, points to her mother. You realize that Fado means exactly that, mother. 

You also realize that Ri has spoken lengthily about you and you feel an unusual warmth spreading in your face. You're comfortable that your cape and hood will cover it enough not the let the woman see it. 

*

Rosh'ahnna's cooking is definitely more spicy than Calder's, no doubt about it at all.  
It's also much better. Possibly the best food you've ever eaten in your life, and you spent quite a lot of time traveling and trying different cuisines. 

As the child goes to sleep – but only after hugging you for a few movements of the moons – Ri sits down at your side, her delicate, plump thigh brushing your knee at her every breath. 

“She likes you,” she says, after a very long, very stifled silence. 

You're glad, at least, that the air is hot in the tent she has prepared for you. You wouldn't be able to take all this discomfort and _stillness_ in the cold. 

“And I like her. She's a good lass. Will make you proud.”

“She already makes me proud,” Ri says, and her voice is cold enough to rival the Sun's Dusk's frigid air.

You realize, as if struck, that today is the eighteenth day of the month. A Loredas, if you're not mistaken.  
A thought goes out to Hel Ansei, as today is the day of its celebrations, even if no one else follow the ways anymore, these days.  
You still remember it.  
It's still part of your heritage of Redguard, and you're proud of it.

“Maybe don't get offended every time I speak?” you suggest, mostly teasing. There is only the smallest crumb of honest irritation in your voice, but she scoops it out like a guard on the heels of a criminal.  
Sadly, you can't bribe her with gold to get her off your case. 

“Maybe don't say things that may result offensive? It is always a possibility, you know, Dovahkiin?” 

“You know my real name, Ri. You're gladly welcome to use it as it was made for your mouth.” You wink at her, possibly not for the first time, you don’t actually remember.  
You're so used to your ways, learned in Dibella's Cathedrals around the world, that you don't actually realize how… _warm-blooded_ you seem to people. 

Ri, in fact, bares her teeth to you and hisses like a real cat would. 

Not that you think she is any less of a Khajiit just because she looks human. You would never suggest such a thing, it is highly offensive.

And so, because sometimes you're also smart and not only dangerously good looking and powerful, you keep said words in your mouth. Tightly. 

“You won't get to know my name, yet,” she tells you, and you shrug, uncaring. 

Your name was not offered only to get hers. You don't act like this.  
And obviously she can't know, but she will come to understand it, sooner or later. 

Of course, you have no intentions of leaving her alone, now that you've seen her in her house, interacting with her daughter, being the most adorable and lovely creature the gods could have offered to this world. 

You can't leave her alone and she can't leave your thoughts. 

“It doesn't matter,” you tell her, as the silence tries to stretch long again. You wont let it. “I can call you Ri.”

“Jo.” She looks at you. Really looks at you. 

Usually, people stare. You're a devotee of Dibella, in name, more than in actions of worship, and people staring at you is not only common but expected, too. 

They stare at your hair, not fit for a warrior of your caliber, at your body – muscled, now, not curvaceous and inviting anymore – and at your eyes – meek and sorrowful and frighteningly bright.  
They never look at you as if trying to read your soul. 

She does. 

“Translate it for me,” you request, and it comes out as a prayer. 

“It's– it means mage. Wizard. I'm a _mage_.” The carefulness and uncertainty with which she speaks make it clear to you that she has been hassled for her magical inclinations. 

You, being yourself and not caring what anyone think, have never suffered from other people's judgment. Only from your own. Your worst judge, your worst executioner. 

Your magic has always been a matter of pride for you, and so you put your hand forward and let it sparkle in golden healing in front of the both of you. 

“Oh,” Jo says, covering her mouth with both her hands. Her eyes are wide and marvelous in the light coming from your palm. “You're gifted too.” She is mesmerized by you, and when she turns to stare into your eyes, there is a new attitude to her body. 

“Studied at the College, in Winterhold,” you tell her, not trying to brag too much about it.  
What you leave out is the current position you hold in the College. She doesn't need to know. She doesn't need to have another additional reason to dislike you. 

*

“Have you ever eaten human meat?” Rosh'ahnna asks you. She has taken a strong liking to sitting in your lap, and you take advantage of this to comb her hair with your fingers. You would braid it, but you're not sure if it would come across as disrespectful towards Jo or towards their culture at large. 

“Have you?” you ask back.  
The taste of human flesh is not unfamiliar to you, but this doesn't mean you're willing to talk about it with a child. She doesn't need that kind of depravity thrust upon her small shoulders. It's too heavy a weight for her to carry. 

And she is so small, so incredibly tiny. You can easily host her entirely in your lap if she folds her short, skinny legs under herself, as she is prone to do. 

“Yes. _Liter_ likes it. He made me taste it last winter when there was nothing else around to eat,” Rosh'ahnna says, looking upward, into your eyes. She has the same wits and smarts to her of her mother. 

As you stare down at her, your heart warms with fondness. You place an upside-down kiss on her forehead and she purrs delicately in her throat. Her tail, usually hidden close under her clothes, wraps around your ankle and she smiles. 

You like Rosh'ahnna. You would gladly take her as your own daughter. If Jo agrees to become your spouse, of course. 

Also because the only alternative to make an adoption plausible is not very… Appealing to you.  
Not at all. 

You like Jo.  
Jo is lovely. You want to keep her safe and very much alive. And possibly to yourself as a wife, too. 

“Is it hard to get food for you?” you inquire, and considering the girl's body you wouldn't have troubles believeing her if she said yes. 

She is bones and skin and not much else. Healthy, yes, but not as much as she could be. Not plump as her mother – even if you strongly suspect Jo's curvaceousness is more a gift of her age than her eating habits. 

“Not here,” Rosh'ahnna drawls, her voice is endearing and accented, just as yours is, but where you have hard, grating consonants, she – and Jo too – has rolling _R_ s and long vowels. “It's cold, and _Fado_ doesn't like it, but there is always fish. A lot of fish. And a lot of fruit too. It's better here.” She nods to herself, a hint of pride and satisfaction. 

You wonder about it for just a moment, and then realize how unhealthy it is for you to want to know everything about this little family of two. 

You're not one of them, you should not want to be included in everything and anything. 

Boundaries, you remind yourself, are an important piece of beginning friendships. 

*

“Your daughter asked me if I ever dabbled in cannibalism.”  
Jo turns her eyes to you. Only her eyes though. Every other inch of her body is still focused on this little alchemy project of hers. 

You wonder how disrespectful it is of you to distract her like this.

And then you tell yourself that Jo is willing to ignore you if she wants to or needs to. She is capable of it and she doesn't feel any kind of misplaced, pointless guilt for it. 

If she gives you attention, it's only because she can afford to and because she has the desire to.

“You told her?”  
  
“Told her what?” you ask, sauntering deeper against the hard wood of the bench you're draped on.  
Your sleep is more and more difficult to come. You haven't had a good night of rest since the day you've met Jo, and it's been quite a few months. 

Enough for your birthday recurrence to come and go. Enough for Jo to trust her daughter in your hands whenever she can keep an eye on her. 

It's been a while. And you're tired as you've never been before. 

“Your devotion to the Lady of Decay.” 

Oh, _Jo_ , lovely, gorgeous Jo. 

She knows all your little secrets, doesn't she? She already has a journal in her mind of all the dark deeds you've committed. 

She knows. And she still gives you her daughter to keep safe. 

You have no doubt in your heart that Jo feels something for you. You just have to decide if it is in a friendly or romantic fashion. 

“Obviously not. She's a child. She doesn't need to know about the Daedra and my deals with them,” you say, and she nods.  
Curt, noble, satisfied. 

You've learned that this is the nod you get when you do something right. Or, alternatively, when you refrain from doing something wrong. 

You feel pride surge in your chest and you let it show in a smile. 

“And did she tell you?” Jo asks, her left hand crunching a bunch of leaves under her pester.  
Both that and her mortar are made of fine marble, white and holy. The same kind of equipment you have at the College, but not as fine and precise as the ones you have found in Cyrodiil at the Arcane University. 

Oh, those were good days. 

Wide eyed, you were then, and curious and excited about life as a concept.  
Your grandfather had brought you there for the first time, and it was you who decided to stay for a few seasons.  
It was magical, in more ways than just one.

“Yes. But I have no desire to berate you. Nor do I have the right to. You do what you have to do, you eat what you have to eat. It's survival.” 

“For me and Rosh'ahnna it was. For him not. That's why we're here,” Jo says, a new viciousness to her that you had yet to witness. 

“Liter?” you wonder aloud.  
She stares at you, taken aback for only the shortest of moments, and she nods. 

“That means brother. Rosh'ahy calls him brother, but he's not. He's not!” 

“It's fine, Jo. It's good, you're here now. He's not.” You would recognize panic while blinded and deafened. You surely recognize it on Jo's pretty face and in her deepened voice. Not more than a hiss that wants terribly to be a growl. 

She might be too terrified to growl right.

*

“You're not sleeping properly,” Jo berates you, her small fingers caressing the dark circles around your eyes. You look bruised, as if you lost a brawl on the streets, but you've never lost a brawl in your life. You know how to pack a punch and you wouldn't let drunkards beat you. 

Jo sighs hard and harsh, she shakes her head. “Tell me you've not attempted to sleep with my gift close to yourself, Dovahkiin.”

“My name, Jo. You still know it and you're still welcomed to use it,” you remind her.  
Your head hurts more than ever.  
It's not the kind of pain you're used to. It's not a poisoned wound, nor magical exhaustion. 

It's just sleep. Or lack thereof, and you've never really experienced it on such a long span of weeks. 

“Jade Harley,” she says, haughty. It's probably just to shut you up.  
The way her tongue rolls around your name is better than any bard's song.  
They could be narrating your best and most heroic deeds and you would still ignore them all in favor of hearing Jo say your name. “Where have you put the gift of my people?”

“On the table beside my pillow, to stare at it before I fall asleep every night,” you tell her, and it's not even a lie. 

Her people's gift is a fine piece of jewelery, a collar to wear to your neck, made out of copper and emeralds. The magic embedded in it is so strong that you hear it sing to you.

“You're an idiot. It bears the blessings of Merrunz. It will not let you sleep if you keep it on yourself or close to your body,” Jo spits out, slapping your cheek so delicately that it feel more like a caress than punishment. 

*

Even in Second Seed, the air doesn't warm up in Windhelm. Its just as freezing as the dark season, and just as temperamental.  
You wake up after a week of sunlight and it's snowing.  
Outside of Hjerim's walls, you hear a commotion. 

Someone is screaming at the top of their lungs, and it takes you more than a few movement of the sun to realize that you know that voice. 

And also the voice answering them.

It looks like Jo and Calder are having a brawl outside. You only pray that no one will get too badly hurt. 

You take your sweet time getting dressed and fed, and then you wander out the door, in the merciless storm. All you can see is white on stone, and you think of blood because you always think of blood when you see snow. It's unwilling, but at the same time it would be pointless to try and change it.  
Snow will always and only bring you bad memories. Memories better left in the depths of your mind. 

“What's going on?” you ask, and your voice is powerful. Has always been powerful.  
This is the fate of the Dovahkiin. 

They stop their screaming, their fighting, and turn to you as one. 

“This thief demands to speak with you, my thane!” Calder exclaim, placing himself between you and Jo.  
The woman is looking at you with pride, yes, because she is always prideful, but there's also desperation in her eyes. 

“The guards took Rosh'ahy,” Jo hisses in your direction. “You're the Dovahkiin, you can do _something_!”

And of course, you do something. 

Not only because you're the Dovahkiin, but also because you can pay whatever ransom the Guards ask for Rosh'ahnna's freedom, and you're willing to.  
She might as well be your own daughter, for all the tenderness you feel for her. 

That night, after you brought the girl back to her caravan, Jo hugs you tight and whispers in your hear, her nose buried in your hair, “My name is Ro'ohsee La'aalonde. Use it like it was made for your mouth.”

~*~

You get to Riften on the twenty-first day of Last Seed, the day devoted to Mara.  
Riften is warm, even in this month, and you leave your furs and Ro'ohsee's warmer clothes in Honeyside. 

“We will be at the Temple of the Mother,” Ro'ohsee tells you, holding Rosh'ahnna close to her side.  
The girl is dressed in the fine clothes you've gifted her, and she looks even prettier than usual. 

She's starting to grow up, too. Her hair is getting longer, her ears taking on a familiar pointed tip, her nose is getting flatter, black.  
It's obvious that she is a Khajiit, contrarily to her mother. 

“I will be there as soon as the ceremony starts,” you say, placing a kiss on both of their foreheads. 

“I can barely wait,” Ro'ohsee whisper, and there is a fair blush on her cheeks, a stutter in her voice and you can feel her heartbeat, so fast and nervous. You smile to her, cradling her face in both hands. You dwarf her, but it doesn't matter. 

Nothing matters today.  
Today is the day you have dreamed of for the last year. 

You kiss Ro'ohsee's lips. She tastes of flowers and moon sugar.

Today is the day you get married to the most beautiful, smart and kind woman you've ever known.  


**Author's Note:**

> [Here is the blog](http://jaderoseweek.tumblr.com/) that organizes the week.


End file.
